


carved into (like all the rest)

by Mirror_Face



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Amami Week 2020, Character Study, Entamaphobia, Introspection, Killing Game Was A Virtual Reality Simulation (Dangan Ronpa), Paranoia, Post-Game (Dangan Ronpa), Post-New Dangan Ronpa V3, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26769550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirror_Face/pseuds/Mirror_Face
Summary: “You do have the money.” Shuichi tried to turn his smile into something other than tired. It didn’t fit him, Rantaro thought, the shoes he were trying to fill (which shoes though? did those shoes even exist at all? rantaro already knew the answer).“I do.”And they sit in silence, because Rantaro is busy thinking about everything that he wasn’t telling Shuichi. About doors- and about how the large vastness of the ocean should be something that made him scared, if he really was so afraid of the unknown. But the ocean’s unknown was different. It was deep under, more wonderfilled than dangerous. Unlike the close proximity and urgentness of danger behind a door.Maybe it was less about the unknown and more about the closeness.He never told any of this to Shuichi though- Shuichi was a good listener, but he couldn’t really understand what it felt like to die. Or all the fears that came with it.(there's danger around the corner- blue haired, metal ball in hand- behind the door he can see her creep-)Rantaro smiled warmly, finished his tea, and said, “If anyone asks for me, just say I’ll be on a trip.”“How long?”He shrugged.
Relationships: Amami Rantaro & Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	carved into (like all the rest)

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my friend Tox's Amami week, which was a private thing. I haven't been very inspired lately, so I was only able to write one fic for it, but I hope it's okay.
> 
> This was written for day 5- the prompts being safe/danger

Rantaro knew that, despite coming out of the same game as everyone else- despite being there at the beginning, there was a large disconnect between him and everyone else. He was the first to die, he knew everyone less, he knew  _ everything  _ less.

He was also the only one who hadn’t had to go through a class trial with them, to be there with them during an execution- instead deep asleep in the shallows of his own mind. There was also the fact that he had actually experienced all of those things before (not with them, not in the same place, not as the same man), but no one really liked to talk about that.

(the was also the fact that rantaro  _ hadn’t trusted them _ . that was what mattered the most, he knew. he hadn’t mentioned his talent or his plan or the door, he hadn’t really done anything but die on the drafty floor of an old library)

Everyone was somewhat distant from him because of their lack of time together. Rantaro knew they tried (well, a few of them did), but there were times when he was glad that no one was really around to talk to.

(he would only ever end up losing them anyways, the fake part of his brain liked to spit- sour and bitter in all the wrong places)

The most prevalent times were when the presence of doors, flashing in the corner of his eyes- closed and mysterious and so all-consuming- got a little bit too much. A little bit too stressful. When the beating of Rantaro’s heart hitched and beat twice as fast only a millisecond later.

In the back of his mind would be the searing presence of doors. (open it) a part of him begged constantly, because perhaps the unknown was what made it so scary. (please don’t) another part begged, desperately afraid of what might be on the other side.

(he always knew what was on the other side. usually it’s the hallway leading through his house, but that didn’t stop him from always wondering- worrying, all pure paranoid hysteria- if he was going to die once the door was open)

Rantaro always opened the door in the end and he never died. That didn’t change anything.

  
  


Really, it was sad how many people relied on doors.

(rantaro always had a hard time steadying his breathing)

* * *

“I’m going to buy a boat.” He told Shuichi, because he was easy to talk to.

He blinked wearily at Rantaro, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s pretty similar to your… your backstory.”

“I guess. But, this isn’t because I’m going on some crazy adventure around the world to find my twelve missing sisters. I just,” And he sighed, almost dreamily, wishing he could breathe some air that wasn’t so stifling. Wishing that the front door to Shuichi’s house wasn’t  _ right there _ , making his blood stop and push whenever his brain called its presence to attention, “I want to buy a boat.”

“And do what?”

“Travel.”

“You do have the money.” Shuichi tried to turn his smile into something other than tired. It didn’t fit him, Rantaro thought, the shoes he were trying to fill (which shoes though? did those shoes even exist at all? rantaro already knew the answer).

“I do.”

And they sit in silence, because Rantaro is busy thinking about everything that he wasn’t telling Shuichi. About doors- and about how the large vastness of the ocean should be something that made him scared, if he really was so afraid of the unknown. But the ocean’s unknown was different. It was deep under, more wonderfilled than dangerous. Unlike the close proximity and urgentness of danger behind a door.

Maybe it was less about the unknown and more about the closeness.

He never told any of this to Shuichi though- Shuichi was a good listener, but he couldn’t really understand what it felt like to die. Or all the fears that came with it.

(there’s danger around the corner- blue haired, metal ball in hand- behind the door he could see her creep-)

Rantaro smiled warmly, finished his tea, and said, “If anyone asks for me, just say I’ll be on a trip.”

“How long?”

He shrugged.

Shuichi didn’t say anything more than, “I’ll be sure to tell them.”

The not-detective was even nice enough to not mention how Rantaro had flinched once his shaking hand had pushed open the door to leave. His eyes, however, had gleamed with something much closer to sympathy than understanding.

Rantaro knew that he shouldn’t take his friend for granted, but sometimes he couldn’t help but feel a spike of bitter envy that clasped around the back of his skull- letting free a dulling headache. Sometimes he wished he could just talk to someone.

But Rantaro knew that nobody knew himself better than him. And he needed a boat.

The ocean wouldn’t understand either, but Rantaro had no hopes that it could in the first place (because despite how much he knew that shuichi  _ wouldn’t understand _ , a part of him had still hoped).

He couldn’t wait to see the world again.

* * *

Wide open oceans reminded Rantaro of things not real, carved up memories that seemed to scar his brain. The nostalgia of the scattered wind and ocean seas made him uneasy.

What wasn’t familiar was the distinct lack of purpose thuddering in his ears. There was nowhere to go- nothing (no one) to look for. It was just wandering and drifting, waves splaying away to the wind. The trickling of water scratching at the edges of his boat.

_ “How long?” _ Shuichi had asked- and Rantaro had simply shrugged.

(and he was sure that if shuichi had asked ‘where?’ rantaro would’ve had the exact same answer)

At least, he thought, there were far less doors.

Was he fulfilled? He wondered to himself, staring out towards the crooked sea on his crooked boat- all crooked and awkward as his elbow leaned down the edge.

(he already knew the answer, but sometimes he asked himself pointless questions just to get himself to think. it was rather easy to get lost in the ocean’s waves)

No, he wasn’t. That was the conclusion Rantaro came to, after a while of staring and thinking . There was nothing fulfilling about empty wandering, about running away.

(or maybe that was just his other self talking, the one with twelve missing sisters and a quest and a duty to himself to find them. rantaro though, he didn’t have any sisters- and he didn’t have someone to find)

But maybe it was worth it, the unfulfilled feeling that curdled in his stomach, as he drifted on lazy waves. As long as his hands weren’t shaking and his heart wasn’t hammering. As long as he didn’t think  _ what’s behind that door?  _ whenever his eyes managed to land on one.

It felt like running away, but the last time he tried to fix the problem- he ended up dead on the floor, his blood staining the carpet underneath him. It felt like running away, but one day he was going to open a door and die (just like he did before, except for the coming back part), and he didn’t know what to think about that.

It felt like running away. (but it wasn’t like problems didn’t chase him anyways)

“Hey,” he told the ocean (he told the sky, not caged like how he sometimes thinks it’ll be), “I’m going somewhere. I won’t have to open a door to get there.”

Because there were always smaller doors, to get from room to room- from up-deck to below deck, but there were never any meaningful ones. Not on the ocean. There were no secret doors behind a bookshelf, or a secret passage under a manhole where he was.

And that reassured him, just a bit (only a little), that maybe it wasn’t exactly his time to die.

Not on a boat.

Not on the ocean.

Not where the air was fresh and clear.

  
  


Perhaps Rantaro wasn’t fulfilled- but he would be. Because it was peaceful there, in the middle of nowhere. He felt safe there (only a bit, only a little).

And so he turned around, back to the waves, and Rantaro didn’t die.

(he still didn’t know where he was going)

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a personal favorite poem of mine. It's by Sam Shepard and can be found in Motel Chronicles:
> 
> (He prowled the pool  
> Of the Holiday Inn  
> And felt a fit of uselessness
> 
> The sight of the pool  
> At midnight  
> In Texas
> 
> Poor Texas  
> Carved into  
> Like all the rest)


End file.
